Project Pope

Thirty-seven

Decker halted well before sunset, having found a spot where he could camp for the night. A spring gushed from a hillside, giving origin to a small stream that went trickling down a valley. A grove of low, dense mountain shrubs grew to the north of the spring, promising protection against night winds swooping from the peaks that loomed ahead. There was a dead tree fallen just downstream of the site, propped up against a nest of boulders, providing an easy supply of dry wood.

Decker set to work methodically. He hauled in wood from the dead tree and got a cooking fire started, then chopped and stored wood against the night. He set up a small tent that would serve to shelter him if rain came and unrolled his sleeping bag. He brought a pail of water from the spring and hung a kettle to boil for coffee, then unwrapped two fish he'd caught earlier in the day and prepared for the pan on the spot, wrapping them in leaves against the time when he would need them. These he put into a pan and settled down to cooking supper. First, however, he made sure the rifle was propped against a boulder within easy reach. In all the time he'd spent on his trips into the mountains, he had seldom needed it, but natural caution told him he could not rule out the possibility of sometime needing it.

Whisperer as yet had not caught up with him and, thinking this, he knew the thought was illogical. Whisperer had not known that he was planning on the trip — in fact, he had not really planned it; he'd simply up and left. It had not been an impulsive action; there had been no sense of urgency to get going, no sudden need to leave and go into the mountains. The trip had come quite naturally, as a matter of course. The garden was all hoed and the woodpile was well up and there had been nothing else to do. Without much surprise, he had found himself preparing for the trip. He had not thought of it as something special; it had been just another trip, in the course of which he would pick up some gemstones if he should be lucky. He had thought momentarily of driving down to Vatican to see if Tennyson might want to go with him, but had told himself it might be a bad time for Tennyson. As Vatican physician, Jason probably would have to stick around to keep an eye on Mary. Some other time, he had told himself.

It was not that he wanted to be alone; he liked the man. Tennyson was the first man he had met in years that he really liked. He was, Decker thought, a man very like himself. Tennyson never talked too much and never about the wrong things. He asked few questions and those he asked were sensible. He had the knack of approaching an awkward situation with diplomatic ease. What he'd had to say about Whisperer could have been a sticky matter, but he'd come to it directly and with a frankness that was refreshing in itself and it had not been awkward in the least for either one of them.

As he squatted by the fire, tending the frying fish, he found himself wishing that Whisperer were with him. If Whisperer had known that he was going into the mountains, he'd probably have come along. Whisperer liked the trips they took. There always was a lot for them to talk about, and Whisperer derived as much fun as he did out of searching the streambed gravels for the gems they often came upon. Whisperer, he recalled, invariably was a good sport in this regard. He never bragged unduly about the gems he found that Decker had passed by, unseeing.

He had realized when Tennyson first told him what had occurred with Whisperer that he might see less of him. Sometimes that might have been a plus, for no question about it, there were occasions when Whisperer could be something of a pest. But he had been certain that the old friendship would not be broken — he and Whisperer had been together too long for that to happen. Thinking of it now, he was certain that it had not happened, that Whisperer's present absence was not due to any lessening of their association. With Tennyson, Whisperer probably would pick up some new interests, and he might now be off somewhere running one of them to earth. But in a short while he'd be back. Decker was sure of that. Before this trip was over, chances were that Whisperer would come sniffing down his trail to join him.

The coffee kettle threatened to boil over, and he reached out a hand to grasp the forked stick that held it, intending to move it away from the heat of the fire. The kettle exploded in his face. It went flying through the air, crumpled by an unseen force. Boiling coffee sprayed his face and chest.

In an automatic reflex action, Decker dived for the rifle propped against the boulder and as his fingers grasped it, the sickening, snarling crack of another rifle sounded from the hillside above him.

Rifle in hand, Decker rolled behind the boulder, raised himself cautiously to peer above it. The shot had come from the direction of a rocky outcrop halfway up the hill, but there seemed to be nothing there.

'The bastard shot too soon, Decker said aloud. 'He could have crawled a little closer and had a better chance. He was too anxious.

The crumpled kettle lay a good ten feet or more beyond the campfire. The fish in the pan, he saw, were smoking, crisping. If he was tied up here too long, they'd be ruined. Dammit! he thought — he had been looking forward to those fish. He could almost taste them.

Now who would be shooting at him? Who would want to kill him? He was certain he had been the target of the rifleman. Not the coffee pot. The shot had been to kill, not to frighten.

He watched, flicking his gaze along the hillside, intent on catching any movement, any sign of movement. This could not have happened, he told himself, if Whisperer had been with him. Hours ago, Whisperer would have spotted the one who had been stalking them. It would have to be someone, he told himself, who would have known that Whisperer was not with him — but that was wrong, he thought, it had to be wrong, for no one in End of Nothing knew of Whisperer. He had never told anyone and so far as he knew no one could see Whisperer; therefore no one could be aware of him. Tennyson was the only one who knew — and probably Jill, for there were no secrets between the two of them. Could Tennyson have told Ecuyer? he wondered. It seemed unlikely. Tennyson and Ecuyer were friends but Tennyson, he felt certain, would not tell Ecuyer of Whisperer.

All this, he reminded himself, was footless speculation. Undeterred by Whisperer, for no one knew of Whisperer, anyone could have come hunting him. It was just his tough luck that, without Whisperer, he had been caught flat-footed. It couldn't be Tennyson up there on the hillside. Tennyson had no reason. Even if he had, this was not his style.

There were some rifles — a few rifles — in End of Nothing. Some hunters occasionally went into the woods in search of meat. Mostly small caliber, however. From the sound of it, the one up there on the hill was a heavy caliber.

He ran down the names of people who might want to kill him. He could scarcely think of any, having to stretch his imagination to make up a list. Having come up with one, he rejected each of the names. The few that he could think of could not possibly have that strong a motive. A few, at times, might have been offended by something he had said or done, but certainly not so touched to the quick as to come hunting him. The whole idea of someone out gunning for him was ridiculous. And yet there was someone out there, hiding on the hillside with killing in his heart, waiting for him to move and betray his position so the watcher could send a bullet through him.

Something hard and going fast hit the boulder's edge, four feet or so from Decker. Chips of granite flew and a few of them struck his cheek and neck with stinging force. The report of the shot reverberated in the hills. The bullet, up-ended in its flight, went howling off in a ricochet, tumbling end for end.

Up there, Decker told himself, up there by the stone outcropping — a tiny spot that had momentarily glittered in the rays of the setting sun. Decker tried to make out what it was but was unable to. He slid the barrel of his rifle along the boulder until it was pointed approximately at the spot.

Nothing happened. Nothing stirred. There was no sound. The killer waited. Then Decker saw the beginning of a shape and traced it out — a shoulder, a hint of torso, the suggestion of a head.

He crouched close against the rifle, cuddling it hard against him, lining up the sights. The shoulder, and there was the head, half in shadow, not sharply outlined, but it had to be a head. He took it in his sights, froze them on it, drew in a breath and held it, began the trigger squeeze…